broken pretty thing
by paradisdesbilles
Summary: It happens without her noticing, and then it's too late, then she can only acknowledge its presence, can only stare and wonder when it happened, when everything went wrong.


It happens without her noticing, and then it's too late, then she can only acknowledge its presence, can only stare and wonder when it happened, when everything went wrong. She doesn't know how to react at first, mostly because her throat tightens and tears pool in her eyes, and she has to leave the room before anyone notices, has to get out of there as soon as possible. Her breathing is ragged when she stops at the edge of the camp, heart racing beneath her fingers as she presses a hand to her chest, wills herself to calm down.

Clarke confronts him about it a few days later, when her mind has had time to wrap itself around the idea, when her heart stops freaking out every time she thinks of it. She finds him in his tent as he sits cross-legged on his makeshift bed, bowl of nuts and berries propped up on his knee, map unfolded in front of him on the mattress.

"What are you doing?"

He looks up to her, eyebrow shooting up in surprise, before looking down again as he points the bowl with a finger. "Breakfast, apparently."

"_No_," she hisses, drawling each syllable, "What. Are. You. Doing?"

He looks genuinely confused, and she doesn't know if she wants to be upset or relieved. Upset it is, though, as she can't ignore the anger rushing through her veins, can't forget the dull pain in her brain. Bellamy reacts accordingly, putting his bowl aside before she stands up – he keeps a safe distance between them, but she reads the worry in his eyes, the concern etched on his forehead.

Damn him for caring so much, damn him to hell and back.

"You're in love with me."

It's not a question but a fact, enounced clearly, coldly. His eyes wide immediately, mouth opening even if no word comes out. He doesn't deny it – doesn't need to, because she knows, she sees it in the way he stares when he thinks she isn't looking, in the way he makes sure she eats properly, sleeps in a bed every night, in the way he makes sure the kids don't bother her too much. He loves her, and she can't breathe.

It's like an iron grip around her heart, a heavy rock plummeting in her lungs, and she finds herself out of breath. "No," she says, and it comes out as a shout, as a whisper. "You can't."

"Clarke…"

"No! Fuck, Bellamy, you… What the fuck?" She takes a step back and away from him, ignores the way he looks at her, like a puppy that just got kicked. "What are you going to do? Die for me? Kill for me?"

She can't breathe, little hiccups escaping her throat without her accord, and she stares at him with terror in her eyes, stares at him like he is her worst nightmare. She isn't sure what happens next – if she falls into his arms or if he pulls her into a hug –, all she feels is his arms around her, as warm as the tears falling down her cheeks, wetting his shirt.

She hasn't cried – not since she came back to camp, fingers trembling around the knife and blood soaking her hands. Hasn't cried as Raven yelled as her, hasn't cried as she told her mother, in a voice so distant she might as well have died too, that a meeting was set up, that peace would be found. She hasn't cried, has repressed everything, for weeks, months, centuries.

She hasn't cried and now she breaks down, frail body shaking with her sobs as she presses her nose to his neck, lets the emotions build up and build up until they burst too. She kept them inside for so long, denied herself the right to mourn for even longer, and the result is ugly as he tightens his hold on her.

"I'm sorry," he says, and Clarke doesn't know if he's apologizing for his feelings or for everything else. It doesn't really matter anyway.

But he apologizes, and she hiccups another sob, closes her eyes until she sees stars, bites her lip until she tastes blood. She hates him; him and his fucking selfless love, him and his overwhelming love. But mostly she hates him for doing this to her, and not doing anything at all – hates him for the contradictions, hates him because it's easy, because anger and simple, burning everything in its wake until nothing remains, because she's rather be angry than anything else at that point.

She hates him and she hates Wells – brave, selfless Wells who took the blame for her mother, who made the ultimate sacrifice to follow her to the ground, to be by her side until he wasn't. She hates him and she hates Finn – stupid, careless Finn and the choices he forced upon her, the love he shoved down her throat until she choked on it, until his blood was on her hands, his death on her ledger.

She hates them all and then some, those men who couldn't help themselves, those men who saw her as a princess to save. She is a force to reckon with, she is fire and storm and cold winters.

_I am become death_, she thinks, and she chuckles between her sobs, loses it in Bellamy's arms.

Because she loves them, those selfish, selfless men, she loves them so much she didn't know how to live with them, doesn't know how to live without them. She loves him so much, her knight in shining armour, her left arm and her best friend, loves him so much it scares the living hell out of him.

She doesn't love him the way he loves her, and it is a tragedy, a blessing.

She doesn't know what he could do out of love for her. Doesn't want to find out.

(She cries and cries herself to sleep, exhaustion sneaking up on her while she's still in his arms, and the last thing she hears is a broken 'I'm sorry' before everything fades to black. She wakes up in his bed, alone and confused and broken, the smell of him clings to the blankets, to her skin, her hair. She wakes up and he isn't here, and maybe it is better that way.)

(Nothing happens. Life goes back to normal, without a shift in their relationship, without either of them acknowledging what happened. Maybe it is better that way – he deserves better, someone who will love him back, who will be as selfish and selfless as he is. Someone who will look at him and not see the ghosts of boyfriends past.)

(He deserves so much and he chose her. She doesn't understand. She's nothing but a broken, pretty thing.)


End file.
